About this Book

Do? What do you mean? I am horrified. I have always hated change, and this past week has brought me change enough. I cannot think that more would suit me.

Well, I trust you wont stay cooped up in this dingy set of rooms anymore. It hardly becomes the widow of such a Great Man.

And what do you suggest I do instead? Move in with you and Augustus?

She stops eating, flushes red. Well, of course you may. You are always welcome. But thats not what I meant . . .

No, it was unfair of me to say that. She thinks I am unaware of how Augustus treats her. Out all day and sometimes far into the night. She wouldnt want me to witness his neglect at first hand.

I simply meant that you are more independent, now. You dont have to think about whether His Greatness would approve of what you do. All thisshe flings her arms around like a veritable Indian goddesswas what he wanted; what he thought fit. Every blessed chair, every cushion, every plate and cup and cake stand! Now you can do anything you choose. You could take a cottage in the country. Return to Chiswick, perhaps? The air would be better for you. And I could still come and visit.

I find the air quite well enough where I am, thank you, Kitty. I glance around at the red plush curtains, the easy, old- fashioned chairs, the Turkish rug, the walnut piano; and I appreciate for the thousandth time how he had such a tremendous instinct for other peoples comfort. I falter, however, as I catch sight of my music on the piano. The page is open still at The Sailors Hornpipe and I feel his arm, so firm around my waist, as he propels me around my parents parlor at breakneck speed. I think I shall never move from here, I tell her. I like it, and Im used to it. And on the contrary, it makes me happy to know that he chose every chair and cushion and cake stand himself.

He gave you all the old things he didnt want anymore, she retorts. Why dont you admit the Truth for once?

The Truth? I look her in the eye and sigh. You mean, of course, that I should agree with you?

Not necessarily. She tosses her head and the slivers of jet at her ears do a macabre dance. But now hes no longer here, you dont need to be loyal. You can admit it all now, surely.

Admit what, Kitty dear? We have been over this so many times.

Oh, Mama! Admit that he never gave you anything but heartache. And children, of course, she adds sarcastically.

I wont have that. If I have had heartache in my lifeand God knows I haveyour father was not to blame for it. He gave me everything I have valued. If blame there is, well, it is the fault of circumstance.

Kitty glares. Circumstance? Oh, of course, she says, starting to pleat her handkerchief with angry movements of her fine, active fingers. The One and Only cannot be wrong. Yours Truly remains forever above reproach.

She means to provoke me; but I know her of old, and will not be drawn. You may pretend to think ill of him, Kitty, but he has always shown a proper regard for me: I have these comfortable lodgings in a nice part of town, with Mrs. Wilson to look after meand Gyp, too, to keep me company. Gyp barks as if he acknowledges the memory. He is old and fat, as I am, but still affectionate. I laugh and tickle his nose.

Kitty wont have it. He gives you a wretched apartment in a wretched area of town. With one servant, and no carriageand a dog with a foul temper. A fine arrangement! She springs up from the little stool, but she forgets the weight of the train she is wearing and staggers a little against the fireguard, making the fire irons crash into the grate.

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